


A Pack of Smokes

by Thedangerinlove



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Asthma, Awesome Howling Commandos, Bucky Barnes Feels, Canon Compliant, Cigarettes, Don't smoke kids, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pearl Harbor - Freeform, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sexual Tension, Steve Needs a Hug, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-14 03:41:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15379884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thedangerinlove/pseuds/Thedangerinlove
Summary: A study in Steve and Bucky's life from before and during the war and through the MCU, centered around a pack of cigarettes, Bucky's protective tendencies, and Steve trying to find his way back home.Bucky startles up from his slouched position and reaches up to his mouth to snatch the cigarette that had been dangling carelessly between his lips. Next to him, Johnny’s knuckles turn white around the neck of his beer bottle. Jim leans in to turn the radio up louder while shushing everyone in the room.“-to bring you this important bulletin from the United Press. Flash- Washington- the White House announces Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor-”...“Bucky! What the hell? Good Lord- why is your sweater smoking? And your hand, its-”Steve puts his pencil and sketchbook down, and moves to get up, one hand already reaching out to Bucky, who lets the door slam behind him. Bucky rushes across the room, and pushes Steve’s hand away from where it lands on his chest, but doesn’t let go of it. With his other hand, he makes a desperate grab for the radio, and almost topples over on top of Steve.“Just turn the radio off for a second- Jesus, how do you turn this piece of shit off-“





	1. 1938- Potter's Asthma Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello- this will be a collection of stories that spans the entire of Steve and Bucky's life in the MCU. All notes on historical points from the chapter will be posted at the end. 
> 
> Disclaimer- Smoking kills! Don't do it!!
> 
> Come say hello on tumblr @ spacebuns-and-stardust

1938-

It really pisses Bucky off that people- actual doctors, with fancy degrees from expensive schools who wear pristine white coats and drink expensive Scotch- think that asthma is some kind of physiological illness. 

That Steve’s head is broken, not his lungs. That he needs some sort of extended visit to Creedmoor down in Queens, rather than a doctor who will listen to his lungs and help his boy breathe easy again. They’ve been to doctors, of course, back when Sarah was still alive and working at the TB Ward. Once, a few days after Steve’s fourteenth birthday and a rather spectacular attack caused by the Hughes twins chasing him all the way through DUMBO and kicking the shit out of him in an alley, Sarah was able to convince that old bat Dr. O’Connell to take a look at Steve with a smile and a hand pressed to his upper arm. The next day, at the beginning of her shift, Steve and Bucky meet the doc with Sarah in the North waiting room, only for the graying man to tell them that all of Steve’s wheezing was because he was crying out for his mama, and that he was probably depressed from the lack of her presence at home.

“You mean that all his rattlin’ in his chest is because he misses his mama so much? And you can’t do a thing to help him?”

(And frankly, since that doctor told him _yes there is nothing to be done, because nothing is really wrong,_ Bucky has prided himself being smarter than every doctor in at least one way- he knows asthma isn’t just in Steve’s head. He has seen Steve’s fits, the way his lips and fingernails turn blue, how his eyes turn big and wide. Bucky has felt the way his body shakes as he holds Steve’s arms above his head to try to get air into his lungs, how his skinny ribs heave with the effort of coughing and inhaling. Bucky knows asthma is all too real, because he has seen it almost take Steve’s life several times before. And is just something that no doctor could ever learn.)

 Bucky couldn’t believe that schmuck- sure, he didn’t really understand what words like “physcosomatic” meant, but Sarah sure did, if the paleness in her cheeks meant anything.

Sarah quickly escorted her boys out by their elbows while calling her profuse _thank you’s!_ over her shoulder. At the door, she grips both boys by the back of the neck, and quickly brings them in for a kiss on both of their foreheads. And then, she sends them both out the door and back to the Roger’s apartment with a small smack on their bottoms.

And that was it- no doctor could help Steve, because the only option was to let them go rattling around in his head, and Bucky knew Sarah would die before she let those monsters get to Steve. And after stepping over Sarah’s dead body, any white coat coming for Steve would have to go through him.

Sarah isn’t around anymore, nearly two years cold in her grave, but Steve’s asthma sure as hell is. The Brooklyn sky is turning grey and the air is turning sharp, and there is no time for Bucky to feel relief that Steve finally gave in and moved in with him (Steve tried to live on his own for almost a year, before pneumonia almost did him in last winter and brought him under Bucky’s roof) before terror raps its icy hand around his neck. Steve’s lungs have been kicking up a racket for days now, and it’s not even November yet, and if it is this bad now, what is it going to be like in January-

No- Bucky is going to fix this, just like he learned how to fix Becca’s jack-in-the-box and the engine of that old ford his dad inherited when Uncle Timmy died. On the way home from the docks, he stops at the pharmacy run by the O’Neils up in Vinegar Hill to ask about their asthma cigarettes. The cigarettes were the newest thing, shipped all the way over from Brittan, filled with God knows what (Bucky always wanted to be an engineer, not a damn pharmacist). Bucky doesn’t understand what’s in them, or how they work, and to be honest, he is pretty skeptical because he knows the way Steve coughs at the second hand smoke of his cigarettes and even the smell of them on his clothes after a night out with some nice dames. Also, one pack of Potter’s costs a whole 75 cents- about an hour’s wages at the docks.

Fuck it- if the cigarettes work, it will be worth it. Besides, Bucky is well off enough that it should only set him back a few rounds at the dance hall.

(Its true- the Barnes were never as poor as the Rogers. George’s book keeping job was enough to not only keep a roof over his wife and children, as well as to pay for gasoline for a car that ran, and to make sure his children always had nice Sunday bests, for both Church and Temple.)

By the time Bucky gets back to their apartment in Brooklyn Heights, he has somewhat of a plan for giving the cigarettes to Steve. Last thing he needs is to deal with pissy alley cat Steve on a Friday night, especially when he was planning on going out. He doesn’t even hesitate before sticking the key in their rusted out lock and go striding into the apartment.

“Hey Punk! I got somethin’ for ya,” Bucky calls out into their too small apartment before his body is fully through the door. Steve is standing over their bathtub turned kitchen table, laying two plates of potatoes and spam down on the ply wood. Bucky crosses the room and throws the asthma cigarettes down, along with a new pack of Lucky Stripes for him. Steve frowns down at the boxes before he plops his skinny ass down on the chair and begins to poke at his dinner. Steve rests his chin in his hands and pops boiled potatoes in his mouth. Bucky’s old sweater that he is wearing is cuffed several times at the wrist and slips off his collarbones.

“Come on Buck, you know I can’t smoke. Since when you tryin’ to kill me?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and joins Steve at the table.

“You idiot. The Lucky Stripes are for me, and I picked up the Potter’s for you. Denny down at the docks says they helped his older brother, and that his mom and pa used to buy ‘em by the cartons before he moved out to marry Addie Steward – we went to school with her younger brother Billy, you remember? And then when they were cleaning out his old room they found a few left over packs. And I’ve bought Denny a few drinks after work before, and he was askin’ how you were feelin’, anyways, he gave me a pack to give to you, see if they would make you feel better.”

Sometimes, lying was the easiest way to deal with Steve, especially if his own health was in the way. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to regret his lies, and besides, he was doing God’s work. The way he saw it, Steve was all things good in this world, if only his own stupidity didn’t get in the way. So, Bucky thought of it as a good deed to protect Steve, and that God himself would approve of such methods of trickery and deceit. Judging by Steve’s raised eyebrow, he didn’t buy into Bucky’s story. Steve picked at his food again, letting a few moments pass before he addressed Bucky.

“Really? That’s awfully charitable of him, don’tcha think?”

Bucky hummed in agreement, thankful that Steve seemed only to be skeptical, not full on dismissive and confrontational. “Yeah I guess it was. Did you want to go catch that new movie showing down at the Cameo? I remember you loved Robin Hood-“

“And you bought drinks for Denny, you said?” Steve was still looking down at his plate, pushing around small bits of his food. Bucky blinked at him in surprise, “Yeah, just as a way to kick off the weekend, ya know? I don’t really see why that matters though-“

Steve stood up from his chair, and turned away before Bucky could finish his sentence. “I’m going to go try to work on some sketches before the sun goes down. Make sure to wash up.”

With that, Steve leaves for the bedroom at the back of the apartment. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Bucky and the two packs of cigarettes at the table.

That certainly went a lot better than Bucky was expecting, but worse than he hoped. What did it matter that he said he bought Denny a few drinks? He had before, but it wasn’t like he and Denny took regular trips down to the St. George Hotel. He took a deep breath before standing and getting the cheesecloth to wrap their plates. They both didn’t finish their dinners, and at least the potatoes would keep until tomorrow night. He snatches up the pack of Lucky Stripes off the table, and stared spitefully down at the asthma cigarettes.

“Stupid fucking punk couldn’t tell a good thing if it hit him in the fuckin face- Steve! I’m going out! Don’t wait up for me doll face!”

From inside of the bedroom, Bucky heard something that sounds vaguely like Steve’s shoe being thrown at the wall.

“Yeah! Screw you, you jerk!”

Bucky laughed his way out of the apartment.

When he came home later that night, almost empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket, lipstick on his collar and booze heavy on his breath, he forgot to check if the smokes were still on the kitchen table before he crashes on the couch for the night.

A few weeks later, he comes home from the docks, and just about smacked in the face by some sort of smell the moment he walks into the apartment. He scrunched his nose up, and is about to call out to Steve to ask what the actual hell is burning, when he catches sight of him through the bedroom doorway. Steve is sitting on the bed, next to the open window, smoking one of the asthma cigarettes. Every so often, he lets out a dry cough, but it isn’t harsh enough to even worry Bucky slightly.

He watches Steve lift the cigarette to his mouth again, and catalogues how the setting sun makes his hair look like spun gold and casts sharp shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. The hand that doesn’t hold the smoke holds a pencil between long, thin fingers, which has paused in its pursuit of drawing the soda fountain from the diner down the street. Bucky leans his back against the doorframe, hands in his pockets with crossed ankles, and raps his knuckles against the doorway, just to let Steve know that he is there. Steve looks up from his drawing to Bucky, letting the smoke spill forth from slightly puckered lips, and smiles at him.

“Looks like the alley cat likes his little present, hmm? Ya know, you could say thank you!”

Steve snuffs out the smoke and tosses it out the window, all while rolling his eyes at Bucky. He gets off the creaking bed and crosses the few feet to the doorframe, stopping just short of Bucky’s legs to look up at him.

 “Alright, yeah, yeah I get it. Thanks, Buck.”

On his way out of the door into the living room, Steve’s shoulder brushes Bucky’s chest, his light linen shirt catching and dragging across the cotton of Bucky’s dock working shirt, causing Bucky to inhale sharply, and get another whiff of the strange smell.

Sure, it wasn’t the regular tobacco he was used to smelling, but it didn’t smell nearly as bad as the docks did midday in August. He supposed he could put up with the smell if they helped Steve. (Bucky would put up with anything for Steve.)

With a smile, he pushed up from the doorframe and followed Steve out into their apartment.

“Gee, what’s for dinner, Steve? I hope it is potatoes- no, I bet it is potatoes! You know, even if I had all the money in the world, I’d still want-”

“Ya know, you really ain’t as funny as you think you are.”

“So… are we not having potatoes?”

“Fuck you. Of course we are having potatoes. The hell you think this is, the Plaza?”


	2. December 7, 1941

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky startles up from his slouched position and reaches up to his mouth to snatch the cigarette that had been dangling carelessly between his lips. Jim leans in to turn the radio up.  
> “-to bring you this important bulletin from the United Press. Flash- Washington- the White House announces Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor-”  
> Bucky’s ears started to ring, and he felt, rather than heard, Johnny’s beer slip from his hand and shatter on the floor. Jim was staring at the radio, not having moved an inch since reaching over to turn up the nob. The smoke Bucky had been holding slipped between his fingers and tumbled down his shirt, scorching small holes into the fabric as it went...
> 
> “Bucky! What the hell? Good Lord- why is your sweater smoking? And your hand, its-”  
> Steve puts his pencil and sketchbook down, and moves to get up, one hand already reaching out to Bucky, who lets the door slam behind him. Bucky rushes across the room, and pushes Steve’s hand away from where it lands on his chest, but doesn’t let go of it. With his other hand, he makes a desperate grab for the radio, and almost topples over on top of Steve.  
> “Just turn the radio off for a second- Jesus, how do you turn this piece of shit off-“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter deals with Pearl Harbor (and some **sexual tension** and a few other goodies). All of the radio clips, along with the times, are real. At 2:26, the football game was interrupted, and around 2:31, CBS's program "The World Today" tells of the events. The next day at 12:15, President Roosevelt asks Congress to declare war. All of my sources (as well as a list of 1940s slang I used in this chapter) can be found at the end of the work! Also, here begins some semblence of an over-arching plot.  
> Let me know what you think!  
> Come find me on tumblr @stardust-and-spacebuns

 December, 1941

Bucky wakes up to the sound of screaming coming from the tenants above his flat. That would make it the third time this month the Henderson’s were going at it, and I was only a week into December. Kitty was yelling at her husband about once again spending his pay on hooch, and Bucky would be impressed at how loud she was, if her shrill voice didn’t scratch at his eardrums and if he didn’t know their baby was about three seconds from waking up and screaming the rest of the tenants awake-

Without fail, baby Bridget let out an ear-piercing cry. Well, she certainly got her vocals from her mama.

Bucky would be angry, but Bridget was the cutest little thing, with big grey eyes like Rebecca’s, and Kitty was a nice girl and her husband (James? Joshua? Joseph?) wasn’t. Besides, Steve’s hacking throughout most of the winter definitely kept their neighbors up throughout the night, and they never once complained. Still, the girl was only 21, and her and her babe were saddled with _Brooklyn’s most useless, smelliest, and inconsiderate Irish drunkard of all time,_ according to Kitty. Bucky sat up and leaned over to the end of his bed to look for his wool sock in the pile of blankets at his feet, and was just a bit relieved he didn’t have a Kitty or baby waiting for him in the kitchen. Here he was, 24 years old, living across from his ma and Becca (George had died two years before, prompting the two Barnes women to move into the flat next door) and sharing rent with his best friend. All of his friends either had a steady or were hitched, but Bucky couldn’t find it in him to be angry at the current state of his life, or want to change it. His ma made him and Steve dinner at least three times a week, he had been promoted at the docks to an office job, where he was being taught how to keep and balance books, just like his pa, he was close enough to chase off any active duty boys who got too handsy with Becca, and Steve was always just around the corner. Bottom line, Bucky liked his life- he was happy, and he thought himself lucky to be able to say that. So, he didn’t see the harm in carrying on any differently than he had for the past few years, even if his ma’s desire for a grandbaby or two or seven were being increasingly voiced (with more direct force behind the hints as well).

After he has regained possession of his own sock, he put on the extra jumper he had slung around the back of the chair beside his bed last night and walked into the shared kitchen to put on hot water for tea. One of Steve’s sketch books was abandoned on the little table next to the battered armchair in the living room at the front of the apartment. As the kettle heated up, Bucky picked up the book and flipped through it. It was obviously for one of Steve’s art classes, as it had a heavy brown paper cover, was inscribed with _Property of Steven G. Rogers_ inside the front cover, and was full of what Steve called his “character practices” and pictures of trees and dinners drawn in different styles.

(When Steve left his sketchbook out, it meant it was okay to look and flip through it. But, if Bucky ever dared open one of Steve’s personal sketch books, like the blue leather one Steve had saved up six months to get, Bucky would most definitely get the verbal thrashing of a lifetime.)

When the kettle whistled, Bucky got up from the chair and, after peeking into Steve’s open bedroom door, determined that he was not home. It was not unusual for Steve to be out on a Sunday morning, as he still went to mass most weeks, after which he would go say hello to Sarah at the conjoined cemetery. Sometimes, Bucky will go along with him- not because he holds God in any high regard, at Church or Temple, but because Sarah Rogers was one hell of a woman, and just as much a mother to him as his own ma is. Sometimes, during the spring and summer, he met Steve at her grave after church with a flower or two in his hand.

However, most Sundays in the fall and winter were dedicated to football. In fact, after he ate lunch with Steve and checked on Becca and his ma, he’d go over to the complex across the street to Jim’s apartment to listen to the game with some of his friends from the docks. Sure, he and Steve had their own radio- an ancient little thing you sometimes have to give a good whack to dispel the static- which Steve used to listen to Eddie Duchin and Sammy Kayes’ shows while painting or sketching. But, at Jim’s, Bucky was free to drink and smoke and yell and cheer in a way that didn’t feel right next to Steve.

Bucky made his cup of tea and walked back to the living room, only to place it down on the table to spin the chair around to look out the small window above the kitchen sink. He grabbed a smoke out of the pack on the table and lit up. With his tea cup in one hand and cigarette in the other, Bucky watched small flurries of snow fall between from the grey sky and tried to tune out the crying baby from upstairs.

 

 

Bucky was making himself a sandwich when Steve came through the apartment door, bringing with him a gust of cold air. Bucky turned to lean his back against the bathtub turned kitchen table, sandwich in hand, to watch as Steve leaned down to unlace his shoes, old and wet around his toes from dragging his feet through icy slush, noticing how Steve’s hair fell forward off of his forehead. When he stood up after kicking his shoes off to take of his coat, his bangs were so long that they almost came forward to brush his eyelashes.

“Sweet Jesus, Steve. Ya need a haircut. Can’t have ya hiding those baby blues. Best you do it yourself soon, or ma will take a pair of scissors to you, and she’s never been a gifted barber.”

Steve just huffed and threw himself down on the armchair, quickly bringing his knees to his chest and pulling his large sweater over his legs. He then stuck his arms back in through the sleeves, leaving only his head and sock-clad toes visible outside of the pilling blue jumper.

“Well, I ain’t doin’ anything until I figure out how to draw hands in motion. I need to pass human figures, but the professor says my drawings are too still.”

Bucky paused mid chew. “The fuck does that even mean?”

Steve let his head fall forward onto his knees. “It means I ain’t good enough- hey! Come over here for a second.”

Bucky put his sandwich down, and sat down on the stool in front of the armchair, which placed him eye level with Steve.

“Can I practice drawing your hands?”

Big, blue eyes met Bucky’s, and he found himself agreeing immediately. Besides, he had nothing better to do until he left five minutes to 2 to go listen to the game at Jim’s. (Bucky could never say no to Steve anyways.)

“Sure. Can I smoke while you do it though? That way my hands can be in motion.”

“Of course,” Steve said, “but we’re gonna need to move into the kitchen so you can smoke out the window.”

For the next hour, Bucky found himself leaning against the sink next to the open window, while Steve and his sketchbook sat in front of him on the stool from the living room. While Steve watched Bucky’s hands move to and from his mouth, the way index and middle finger gently held the cigarette, and how his thumb would tab the filter of the smoke three times after every few inhales, Bucky kept his eyes firmly fixed out the window. While Steve tried to capture the movement of Bucky’s hand and fingers around the cigarette, Bucky watched how his fingers wrapped around the pencil, how his ring fingertip was used to blur and soften charcoal lines, and how his eyebrows furrowed under dark blond hair. By the time Buck got up to leave, the crease between Steve’s brows has disappeared and he even had the beginning of a smile on his lips.

Jazz music, soft and smooth, played through the radio Steve had retrieved from his bedroom about twenty minutes in. When the clock read seven minutes to 2, Bucky snubbed out the last of his cigarette and flicked it out the window. Noticing how Steve’s cheeks and nose had turned pink with the cold, he shrugged his own sweater off and offered it to Steve, who quickly threw it on top of the two he was already wearing. Bucky picked up the empty carton of Luckies and tossed them into the waste bin on his way to the coat rack.

“Wait! I picked another pack of smokes up for you at the store after I went to see ma. They’re in my coat pocket, along with two packs of matches. Toss one here, and take the other with you.”

Bucky went over to Steve’s coat and fished through the pockets for the matches and cigarettes.

“And people ask me why I don’t got a steady yet. Why would I, when I got you, right sweetheart?” Bucky tossed the second pack of matches over to Steve, who didn’t even bother looking up to try to catch them.

“Keep talkin’ like that, I’ll change the locks so you gotta live with your mama. Then you won’t have a steady ‘cause you can’t bring home dames back to your bed in your ma’s apartment.”

“Yeah, fuck you too, baby!” Bucky left the apartment and walked down the few levels to the street, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets to fend off the cold. After crossing the street and entering the tenement, Bucky found himself outside of Jim’s apartment in just a few moments. He didn’t bother knocking at the door, as he could hear several of the guys already talking inside. He strode in, clearly interrupting Johnny and another one of his unfortunate stories.

“So then I go, ‘heya sugar, are you rationed?’ cause I ain’t looking for a share crop, ya know and then- hey! Looks like Barnes made it! Just in time, too, the game's about to start.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at Johnny, a younger dock worker who, dare he say it, had even worse luck with gals than Steve did, but with good reason. Johnny was the type of fella who wanted to put his hand up some dame’s skirt, but also talked shit about any girl who let any fella who wasn’t him touch them before they were married under the eyes of God.

“The reason you don’t got a dame is because you sure as hell don’t know how to speak to them. Hey Jim, is your wife around? I could give Johnny some lessons here.”

Jim came out from the kitchen area, beer in hand for Bucky. “You know Barnes, I would be offended if I didn’t know that you ain’t a-shoeing for my wife, but you just seem happy to sweet talk your way through life.”

Bucky took the beer from him with a smile.

“Please fellas! James here has a gift. He once charmed crazy Old Union Tom down in Hells Kitchen into not beating his ass. If James can get to him, he can get to anyone,” a voice called over from the sofa. Bucky nodded solemnly at Jim.

“Besides, I have a personal stake in your relationship with your gal. I was one of your groomsmen, after all.”

Jim smiled to, and patted him firmly on the shoulder. “That’s right pal. Come on, turn it up. It’s the Giants against the Dodgers today. We gotta make sure our boys can hear us!”

The radio sat on the coffee table, surrounded by the couch, a stool, and the chairs from the kitchen table. The eight men huddled around the radio, each with a bottle of beer in their hands. Bucky pulled out the pack of cigarettes Steve had given him, and offered a smoke to Johnny and Henry, who had settled into the chairs beside his. Quickly, the room became filled with the noise of WOR broadcasters, often lost under the angry shouts and the cheers of the men.

Twenty five minutes into the game, the Dodgers were leading, and Bucky could feel his cheers getting louder. He loved Sunday football, with the warm beer giving him a slight buzz, smoke clinging to his skin, and the boys cheering all around him. He loved winning even more, especially when the Dodgers came out on top another New York team- it just made going into work the next day so much more enjoyable. (It also made going into work for a lot of the annoying pricks in the office downright painful, which made Bucky’s day even better.)

“…the twenty-seven yard line. Bruiser Kinard made the tackle- _We interrupt this broadcast_ -”

“Oh what the fuck!”

“The hell is that?”

Bucky startles up from his slouched position and reaches up to his mouth to snatch the cigarette that had been dangling carelessly between his lips. Next to him, Johnny’s knuckles turn white around the neck of his beer bottle. Jim leans in to turn the radio up louder while shushing everyone in the room.

“- _to bring you this important bulletin from the United Press. Flash- Washington- the White House announces Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor_ -”

Bucky’s ears started to ring, and he felt, rather than heard, Johnny’s beer slip from his hand and shatter on the floor, splashing up onto his pants. Jim was staring at the radio, not having moved an inch since reaching over to turn up the nob. The smoke Bucky had been holding slipped between his fingers and tumbled down his shirt, scorching small holes into the fabric as it went. For a few moments, the room was absolutely silent- then, the men started shouting.

Bucky jumped up from his chair, catching the back of his hand on the end of Henry’s lit cigarette from where his hand dangled off the side of the arm rest, and bolted to the front door. Despite the shouts of Jim and the others, Bucky threw open the door, leaving his pack of Luckies on the table and his coat on the rack.

He didn’t know why it was so important to him, but Bucky had to get to Steve before the news did. Not like there was anything to know, except that the Japanese had bombed the US, which was an act of war, which meant that the US would join the war, which meant that a draft would be instituted, and Bucky was sure that he would not survive the draft, because unlike Steve, he was not a student, unlike Steve he was healthy-

Unlike Steve, he didn’t want to fight. Bucky knew the second Steve heard that the US had cause to finally enter that God forsaken war, he’d be the first to sign up, and of course they wouldn’t take Steve, not his Steve, with his broken lungs and heart and ears and stomach. But Bucky also knew that Steve would not take no for an answer, and that scared him even more that the prospect of his number coming up in the draft.

Bucky liked his life the way it was, and as he ran down the stairs, out of the apartment complex, and across the street, he wished (and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in) for just a little more time for the life he lived. Just one more dinner with his ma and Becca. Just one more smoke with the guys. Just one more smile from Steve, before they became each other’s worse nightmares.

Bucky raced to the door of his tenant building and up the rickety old stairs to his apartment door. One hand went to the nob, the other to jam the key into the lock, and Bucky was in the apartment before he knew it. He stumbles in, and looks up to find Steve, eyes wide with alarm and lips parted, looking over at him from his place in the kitchen, pencil and sketchbook still in hand, radio playing from the table.

“Bucky! What the hell? Good Lord- why is your sweater smoking? And your hand, its-”

Steve puts his pencil and sketchbook down, and moves to get up, one hand already reaching out to Bucky, who lets the door slam behind him. Bucky rushes across the room, and pushes Steve’s hand away from where it lands on his chest, but doesn’t let go of it. With his other hand, he makes a desperate grab for the radio, and almost topples over on top of Steve.

“Just turn the radio off for a second- Jesus, how do you turn this piece of shit off-“

In the back of his mind, a voice tells Bucky he must be scaring Steve, because the hand not held in Bucky’s vice grip comes up to grab Bucky’s jaw and to turn his head to look at Steve. “Sweet Jesus, Buck, what’s gotten into you? What’s goin’ on-”

“Just fucking listen to me and turn off the goddamn radio, Steve!”

Steve drops his hand from Bucky’s face and backs away enough that his chest is facing Bucky’s arm, with their clasped hands between them, so that they are no longer face to face, but doesn’t try to break away. (As if he could, with how tightly Bucky is gripping his hand.) Instead, he stares at Bucky’s profile for a moment, eyebrows drawn together.

The radio makes a static sound, as the program Steve was listening to ends, and a new one began, “ _Go ahead New York._ ”

Bucky resorts to hitting the radio, quickly trying to find the off switch, or at least the volume nob, while Steve pulled at his sweater and tried to calm him down. Then, all at once, whatever hope Bucky had for just a few more moments of normality vanished.

“ _The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor by air, President Roosevelt has just announced_.”

Bucky dropped his hand from the radio and threw his fist down against the plywood surface of the table and hunched over. His other hand still firmly held one of Steve’s hand. Steve’s other hand stilled against Bucky’s back and gripped the wool of his sweater tight. Bucky could hear Steve’s breathing pick up slightly and start to wheeze, just a little, which caused him to turn his head to the side and look back at Steve, whose eyes are fixed blankly ahead of him. Bucky grinds his fist into the table one last time before pushing up and away, dropping Steve’s hand as he goes. He walks back out to the door, grabbing and putting on their only spare jacket at the door.

“I have to run out a grab a few things. I’ll be back, I promise.”

“Buck-”

He closes the door behind him.

He comes back three hours later, with yet another pack of cigarettes in his pocket. When he opens the apartment door, Steve isn’t in the kitchen or living room. He isn’t in his bedroom either. Wherever he is, Bucky hopes he had enough foresight to bundle up. With a heavy sigh, Bucky at the kitchen table. He grabs the sketchbook and flips through to Steve’s work from this afternoon. Bucky has always thought that Steve was an amazing artist, but as he flips through the later works, he begins to understand what Steve’s professor was talking about. The later drawings of his hands look like they are in the middle of moving right off the page compared to some of Steve’s earlier works. He continues his way through the book, but stops at the last page, which isn’t focused on his hands. Instead, the center of the drawing is Bucky’s lips, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, jawline sharp and shaded with stubble. He leans forward to brace his elbows on his knees, sketchbook in one hand, and allows his fingertips to gently glide over the image.

Bucky didn’t know what to think. Is this what Steve spent his afternoon doing- perfecting Bucky’s cupid’s bow and laboring over the small scar on the left corner of his upper lip he got when he was seven?

A lot of questions floated around Bucky’s head, but one thing was clear- his boy was a marvel. Bucky jumped up from the chair, immediately set on finding Steve, on apologizing to him- but then the front door creaked open slowly and Steve entered the room. Bucky let the sketchbook fall from his hand down onto the wood with a dull thump. Before he can say anything, Steve talks first.

“I was at your ma’s. We missed you at dinner. Ma was so pissed she threw your dinner out. Also, Jim came over with your jacket and smokes. They’re in your bedroom.”

Bucky ducked his head and nodded. When he lifted his head, Steve was looking up at his face, anger coloring his eyes dark. After a few moments, he threw his hands up and turned away from Bucky.

“Fuckin’ hell! What was that all about! You tryin’ to keep the war from me? Do you know how many people they are reporting died? You had no fucking right to pull that shit.”

Steve storms away, making his way towards his bedroom.

“I know. I’m sorry Steve. I just- I’m sorry. Baby- Steve, please.”

Steve continues to his room, leaving Bucky alone in the kitchen to look up at the water damaged celling, blinking furiously. He turns around and stalks over to the sink to throw open the window. With his hands braced on the sink, Bucky takes deep gasps of the cold December air. After a few moments, the sound of shuffling causes Bucky to turn away from the window, and he watches as Steve dumps the blankets from his bed onto the arm chair and places the radio on the stool.

“Well? I imagine we both want to hear the updates as the come in.”

Bucky spends most of the night by the kitchen sink, chain-smoking out the window, while Steve sat in the armchair, bundled under all of the blankets they owned. The radio droned on between them, sometimes playing soft music, sometimes repeating the same bulletin over and over again. Around 11, Steve’s breathing slowed and evened out. Bucky walked over, and gently brushes his hand through Steve’s hair, stopping once he saw the burn on the back of his hand from earlier, which had blistered over and was weeping. He leaves to go wrap his hand in clean cotton, and turns the radio off on his way back to his bedroom.

 

 

The next day, Bucky is eating his lunch at his shared desk when a commotion out in the main lobby of the office draws him out. All of the office workers, along with some of the dock workers are gathered around a radio. Bucky stood in the doorway, listening to the President speak.

_“…I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire...”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pearl Harbor interactive timeline- https://www.historyonthenet.com/authentichistory/1939-1945/1-war/2-PH/  
> 1940's radio history- https://www.old-time.com/halper/halper41.html  
> Slang: (http://1940s.org/history/on-the-homefront/forties-slang-40s/)  
> Active duty – sexually promiscuous boy  
> Share crop – sexually promiscuous girl  
> Hi sugar, are you rationed? – are you going steady?  
> hooch- alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> Potter was a real brand for asthma cigarettes, which were a REAL thing, from the late 1800s to the invention of a cheap, effective, and portable inhaler in 1957. Originally, inhaling smoke from the belladonna plant was first used in Ancient Egypt. After some scientific advancements in Britain, the chemical Atropine was able to be isolated from belladonna and other nightshade plants, packaged, and sold as powder to pharmacists and companies to make asthma cigarettes. Brands like Potter's came over from the UK to the US after the turn of the century, and asthma cigarettes continued to be sold until 1985.  
> for more info, visit http://hardluckasthma.blogspot.com/2012/01/history-of-back-door-bronchodilators.html  
> The St. George Hotel was a real hotel in Brooklyn Heights that was known to turn a blind eye toward male lovers, and became quite the gay hangout. It know serves as student housing for schools like NYU. 
> 
> Most of my background info and inspirations comes from https://historicallyaccuratesteve.tumblr.com/


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